Love is a two-year-old flower that blooms when you love me, but is reluctant to wither when you don't love me.
Liang Weiwan: I don't really like it, I'm just used to it.
Shen Changting: Whether you get used to it or not is up to me, not you.
She said calmly, "We both know very well that we can't be together."
But he lowered his voice and said, "Do we know better, or do you know better?"
At that time, Liang Weiwan was wandering the lonely streets of Paris, as destitute as a beggar. She stood in a dilapidated old square, listening to the old man playing the saxophone who was standing in front of the sculpture in the center of the square playing a sad and unknown piece of music. Slowly picking up a pencil, she wanted to draw a picture of him, but looking at the strange foreign street, she actually forgot his appearance - his smile to her, his kindness to her, his anger towards her, his... Sadness towards her... It should be clearly displayed in front of her eyes, but damn... She couldn't remember any of it. At that time, Shen Changting was standing behind her, following her with affection, looking at her, but she turned around and yelled at him to leave...
Six years later, he didn't know what kind of feelings she had returned to Beiwan, so when she was stopped by the waiter at the door, he just said lightly: "Let her in, she is a guest." Then he took the other woman's hand and announced to everyone that she was his fiancée. He could spy the sadness in her eyes as he wished, but he couldn't figure out his own joy and sadness.